Page 22 of The Devil's Deal

Once his condition worsened and the chemo stopped working, I swore I’d not only continue his legacy, but make my own like he taught me. He wanted us to have something of our own one day.

So, my brothers and I opened three nightclubs right before he died, under our own newly formed company, Vendetta Corporation, which we set up using our real names.

Tomás was proud. It was the last thing we were able to give him before he was gone.

And the name of the company? Well, we’re not very creative, and we were done hiding from the Bianchis.

When we lost him, it felt as though we had lost another parent. He was family to us in every sense of the word. We were indebted to him for everything.

We wanted Faro to know we were back in case he was still looking. I have no doubt he spent years tracking us down, and being bested by some kids is probably not something he’s chosen to forget.

Dante tosses Greg onto the floor.

“Your time’s up,” I tell him. “Time to meet your maker, or the other one.”

He raises both hands, wailing like a drowning cat, begging for mercy that’ll never come. “Please! I can help you. I can work for you! Whatever you want.”

“Can we just fucking do this already?” Enzo urges. “I’ve got shit to do in an hour, and I still have to wash this blood off of me.”

I know what kind of shit he has to do. It’s more likewhohe has to do. I don’t know her name, because they change every week, but it’s definitely a woman. My brother’s always either drowning in pussy or liquor, and usually at the same time. The clubs made that much easier. Dante is just as bad as he is, but Enzo’s worse.

Enzo peers down at his bloodied hands for a mere second, clenching them into a tight fist, the knuckles stained with dark crimson.

I glance at his navy pants and gray button-down, blood spattered all over him. All over each of us, as though someone has thrown paint on us, like in one of those weird-ass paintings people call art.

“Let’s kill him already,” Enzo insists.

I remove the gun from the holster at my waistband, and at the sight, Greg prays through the tears in his eyes.

“No God is gonna help you,” Dante mocks.

I lift the weapon, point it at Greg’s leg, and pull the trigger.

“Ahh!” he screams as the bullet rips apart the flesh of his thigh.

Then I do it to his other one.

No hesitation.

But we’re not done yet. Not even close. By the time we’re through, this place won’t be recognizable.

Greg continues to scream through the pain, holding on to one leg, covering the bullet hole with blood seeping out between the slices of his fingers.

Dante opens the canister of gasoline still in his possession.

“Wha-what are you gonna do with that?” Greg asks, eyes widening in sheer terror, the tears drowned out by fear accosting him.

“What the fuck you think I’m gonna do?” Dante tosses the cap somewhere onto the ground. “Fry you up nice and crispy. Then we’re going to blow this whole place up so your boss has a nice mess to clean up.”

“Oh my God! You’re all crazy! What the fuck, man? Just shoot me!”

“That’s too easy, my friend,” I add. “And a lot less fun.”

I look to Dante, with Enzo now beside him, both with matching sinister smiles. Dante flips the canister over Greg’s head, the smell of gasoline permeating my nostrils as it spills down his body, pooling around him.

Greg struggles to get up, forgetting about his legs, before giving up, crying heavily, knowing the end is near.

A torturous end.

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